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The night over Yokohama was soft, bruised purple and fading into black. Rain had passed only an hour before, leaving the city glistening under scattered streetlights. From the rooftop of an abandoned warehouse near the harbor, one could hear the waves knocking gently against the pier like tired hands.
Atsushi Nakajima stood there, palms wrapped around a can of hot cocoa he bought from a nearby vending machine, letting the warmth seep into him. He had come here to think — to breathe. It was quiet. It was still.
So when he heard the scrape of boots behind him, and the familiar low hum of Rashomon’s fabric brushing stone, he froze.
He didn’t need to turn around.
“...Akutagawa?”
There was no answer at first. A moment of cautious silence. Then, a thin figure stepped into the light — coat dripping faintly from the earlier rain, posture stiff, expression unreadable.
Akutagawa Ryuunosuke.
But something was off. Atsushi could tell from the way Akutagawa’s mouth twitched, or rather — didn’t. Usually, he’d be sneering or demanding something or glaring holes through him.
Tonight, he looked almost… human.
“Jinko.” His voice was low, barely above a whisper. “I need to speak with you.”
Atsushi swallowed. “Sure. Um. Are you… okay?”
“Clearly not,” Akutagawa said. Not cruelly — just plainly, as if he was tired of pretending.
He stepped beside him at the railing. The wind pushed at Akutagawa’s coat, tugging its dark edges like some restless shadow. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Akutagawa said, very quietly:
“For the first time since Dazai brought me into the mafia… I don’t know what to live for.”
Atsushi turned sharply. Akutagawa was staring straight ahead, jaw tense, eyes locked on the shimmering water.
“I’m asking you…” he continued, voice tightening, “to tell me what to do.”
Atsushi’s breath caught.
This — this — was the last thing he ever expected to hear from the man who once tried to tear him apart in alleys and libraries and ruined buildings. Akutagawa never asked questions. He demanded. He followed orders. He lived like someone who already knew the boundaries of his fate.
But now?
Atsushi took in the way Akutagawa’s knuckles were white from gripping the railing. The way he stood like a man unsure if he wanted to keep his balance or throw himself into the dark water below.
“Akutagawa,” Atsushi said softly, “I… I don’t think I’m the person you should ask.”
“You’re the only one I can ask,” Akutagawa said sharply, turning to him. His eyes were bright, intense in a way that wasn’t anger — but desperation. “Dazai’s tests, his judgements, his approval — it used to be everything. It was the only thing that meant anything. The only path forward. But now, when I look at him… nothing moves in me.”
He shook his head, breath uneven.
“But when I look at you—”
Atsushi’s heart stumbled.
Akutagawa exhaled like the admission itself was a wound.
“—I care more about what you think than what he ever did. I care more for you than I ever cared for his approval. And I don’t know what that means. I don’t know who I’m supposed to be if not… his dog.”
Atsushi stared at him, stunned. Akutagawa looked away, shame flickering across his face.
“Tell me what to do,” he whispered.
The tiger shifter felt something tighten painfully in his chest. Akutagawa looked so lost — a man with no footing, no map, no guiding star. A man who had spent his entire life chasing recognition only to realise it wasn’t what he wanted anymore.
Slowly, Atsushi placed the warm can of cocoa in Akutagawa’s tense hands.
Akutagawa stared at it as if it were something fragile, sacred, and painfully confusing.
“Your purpose can’t be other people,” Atsushi said softly. “And it certainly can’t be me.”
Akutagawa’s head snapped up, hurt flashing through his features. But Atsushi stepped forward, voice firm but gentle:
“It has to come from you.”
The words hung between them like warm light in cold air.
Akutagawa didn’t speak, but his eyes trembled — barely, but enough for Atsushi to see the cracks in the armour he had lived in for years.
Atsushi continued, “I spent most of my life thinking someone had to tell me who to be. The orphanage. The Agency. Even Dazai at first. But… I learned — am still learning — that you have to choose what kind of person you want to be. Not for someone else. For yourself.”
Akutagawa swallowed hard.
“But I don’t know how,” he said. The honesty in his voice ached. “I’ve only ever lived for orders. Instructions. Missions. If I am not serving someone, then what am I?”
Atsushi stepped closer, so their shoulders were almost touching.
“Someone who survived,” Atsushi said. “Someone who’s still alive. That’s enough to start.”
Akutagawa stared down at the steaming can in his hands, the faint warmth seeping into his fingers.
Atsushi waited.
After a long silence, Akutagawa whispered:
“Is it… wrong that I want to stay near you?”
Atsushi’s cheeks flushed. “No. It’s not wrong. You just have to make sure it’s not your purpose.”
Akutagawa exhaled shakily — part relief, part fear, part something unnamed.
“What if,” he asked, “I want my purpose to be… protecting peace? Or… helping others? The way you do?”
Atsushi’s breath hitched. It was so raw, so sincere — a question from a man who had never believed he could do anything but destroy.
“I think,” Atsushi said softly, “that would be a really good start.”
Akutagawa let out a breath that sounded like the first real one he had taken all night.
The wind brushed past them, gentler now. The city below hummed with faint life. Akutagawa sipped the cocoa — a stiff, awkward, almost comical motion — and grimaced slightly at the sweetness.
Atsushi laughed quietly.
And Akutagawa, after a moment, let the corner of his mouth lift.
Only slightly.
Only for him.
“Stay,” Akutagawa said, not a command but a request. “Just for a little while longer.”
Atsushi nodded, leaning against the railing beside him.
“Of course.”
The night didn’t feel so heavy after that.
Two boys who once stood on opposite sides of life and death now stood together, not as enemies, not as rivals, but as something new — something fragile, uncertain, and painfully hopeful.
And for the first time, Akutagawa felt like he might discover a purpose that was his own.
One he chose.
One he could build.
One he could live for.